Dragging The Waters
by jesse6
Summary: They're just dreams, Michael,' his father's voice echoed in his head. 'Big boys aren't scared of them. Cops aren't scared.'


**Dragging The Waters**  
1/31/04  
jesse  
  
_[This story is intended as part of the Law & Order "Escaping" universe and is an early (1993) prequel to the first story, "Escaping In America," which appeared in Diverse Doings #11. It can, however, stand on its own.]  
_  
  
_Memories are just where you laid them  
Drag the waters 'till the depths give up their dead  
_"Hemorrhage" - Fuel  
  
#####  
  
Come out of there, open this door.  
  
/Be quiet, be quiet, shhh, don't cry, no sound .... /  
  
I said open this door. Right now. Do you hear me?  
  
/Shhh, don't move, don't cry, don't make any noise maybe she'll think you're not here .... /  
  
The slap of a fist on wood cracks like thunder like gunshots on TV louder than Dad's BB gun that he shoots in the basement so much louder worse bang bang **bang** --  
  
/Don't cry. Oh God don't cry don't even breathe, no sound no sound at all maybe she'll go away -- /  
  
Open this door! Open the damn door, damn you or as God's my witness you will be sorry you were born you spawn of the devil! **Open. This. Door**!  
  
/Quiet quiet be small be silent -- /  
  
The door knob rattles and the wood creaks from the blows and creaks and strains and cracks /no oh no, please God I'll never be bad again _please_ -- /  
  
**_NO_**.  
  
Mike Logan snapped awake without so much as twitching a muscle. Be still, don't move.  
  
Don't move.  
  
As his heart rate started to slow, reality began to reassert itself in small bursts. He was in bed. His bed. His apartment. Alone. Night. Quiet.  
  
The facts of normality, safety, penetrated. He gradually relaxed, his chest starting to unlock. He could take a breath now. Breathe. Again. Again.  
  
"Shit."  
  
Mike rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes, knowing how futile it was to try and scrub away the memories. The cold sweat that drenched him made him shiver, and his muscles were already beginning to ache from the strain they'd been under. He gulped another, deeper breath, blew it out hard, felt the familiar nausea start to rise.  
  
He groped for the bedside lamp. Snapping it on, he struggled upright and leaned back against the headboard, wiping a hand down his face. He looked around, massaging unthinkingly at his collarbone, squinting, trying to focus on the familiar room, chair, dresser.  
  
No use.  
  
Normally he could fight it off, but there was nothing he could do this time -- this was gonna be a bad one. He hated this, hated it like poison: the insomnia, the nightmares that dragged his past into his present. Hated the weakness in himself that let them continue to haunt him nearly thirty years after the fact.  
  
_"They're just dreams, Michael, they can't hurt you unless you let them."_ His father's voice echoed in his head. _"Big boys aren't scared of them. Cops aren't scared."  
_  
"Sure, Dad. But didja ever hear what I hear?"  
  
Sex helped, the wrecked, exhausted oblivion it brought, the feel of another warm body next to him. But right now he was between bed partners. Tonight, he was alone.  
  
Tonight, the memories would run their course regardless, fueled by the ugly case he was currently working. He shuddered. Might as well get up and confront them in the light rather than the darkness -- there would be no chance in hell of any more sleep tonight.  
  
## ## ##  
  
Lennie Briscoe's heart sank a bit as he walked into the 27th Precinct detective squad room and saw his younger partner already at his desk, jacket off and shoulders noticeably tense. Noticeable to Lennie, anyway. Mike generally didn't lose his suit jacket until he'd been working awhile, which meant that he'd gotten there far earlier than he needed to. Which probably meant that he hadn't slept. Again.  
  
Mike had tossed it out somewhere in the first month of their partnership, that he never slept. Lennie had taken it with a grain of salt at first, but he'd been watching. Studying his new partner to see what made Mike tick, so they could work better together. Or that was the reason Lennie told himself, anyway.  
  
He had come to realize the truth of that throwaway line after Mike had shown up a few times with a certain look around his shoulders, his mouth, his eyes. Nightmares, most likely. Lennie was well-acquainted with those himself, but there were days when Mike looked like there was a black beast riding him, and Lennie could almost see the blood trails from the claws sunk into his partner's back.  
  
And the cases that seemed to trigger them were those involving domestic abuse, like the one they were working now. Lennie'd noticed early on that the younger man got almost frantic when there were kids involved.  
  
Add those facts to Mike's frequently confrontational attitude, the seemingly sourceless anger that dogged him, the hair-trigger temper that he worked hard, most of the time, to control .... It didn't take a rocket scientist to put the pieces together.  
  
"'Morning, Mike."  
  
Mike grunted something that might have been a greeting, apparently completely engrossed in the file he was reading. Lennie bit back a sigh as he shrugged out of his own suit coat and slung it over his chair. He moved toward the coffee pot, snagging Mike's already used but currently empty mug off the younger detective's desk as he passed.  
  
Mike didn't look up until Lennie placed the mug, now full, practically on top of the papers in front of him. While his smile was only a shadow of its normally charming, wiseass self, his eyes were warm as Lennie sat down across from him. "Thanks."  
  
Lennie nodded, taking a sip of hot coffee. "So, who's first in today's all- star lineup?"  
  
Mike took a drink from his own cup before answering. "Been running possible leads on the Peterson kid -- "  
  
_Bingo_. Lennie stifled the nod. One tragically dead eight-year-old boy with a broken shoulder and a broken neck, covered in old and new bruises -- _check_. Two parents who were obviously each at least one can short of a six- pack -- _check_.  
  
Unfortunately, things only went south from there.  
  
"Just what the **Hell** were you thinking?!?"  
  
"Donnie -- "  
  
"No, **don't** answer that because it's glaringly obvious that you **weren't**!"  
  
Lennie sat hard on his urge to wince. Captain Donnie Cragen had been shouting for a good minute or more, and his tone was less than sweet as it echoed around the small office.  
  
Mike had gotten progressively twitchier and snappier during the day, showing the signs Lennie had learned meant that there was a major black Irish mood taking hold. It had all come to a head while they were trying to run down evidence in the Peterson case. They were executing a search warrant on the victim's parents' apartment, looking for the bat or stick or perhaps piece of pipe that the ME was certain had caused the fatal break, when both parents had come home. The woman had started screaming something about the vengeance of God as she'd struggled against Lennie's grip. The man, yelling something Lennie couldn't make out at all, had gone for Mike.  
  
It hadn't been any real contest, and Mike'd had the idiot up against the wall in short order. But it didn't stop there. The fight tripped something in Mike that Lennie hadn't seen before, something that wanted to **hurt** somebody.  
  
Normally Lennie didn't in the least mind watching the younger detective get forceful with mooks who deserved it; hell, he'd even admit to enjoying the show, but this time had cut much too close to the edge for comfort. This had been different. This time it had been personal, Lennie's instincts were telling him, and tied to the roots of Mike's nightmares.  
  
But personal or no didn't change the fact that Mike's near loss of control had Lennie worried, and angry. Because this time Lennie had actually had to lay hands on Mike, and for an awful moment he hadn't been sure that his partner would stop.  
  
And he'd be damned if he'd have a good, hardwon collar of his blown because his partner couldn't keep it together -- he'd been there, done that, and tossed out the cheap souvenirs a long time ago.  
  
Lennie himself hadn't said much at the time, saving it for when he could get Mike alone, preferably tonight, after their shift ended. That's what you did for your partner, and Mike was far more than that -- Mike was his friend, the best one he'd had in years. But the dead kid's SOB of a father hadn't been at all shy or quiet about screaming police brutality.  
  
Now Cragen was standing and glaring at Mike and Mike was standing and glaring out the window, the fingers of one hand hooked into the metal mesh covering it, his knuckles white.  
  
Cragen closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his forehead, obviously reaching for restraint. "Mike," he said, his voice a little calmer. "For God's sake, I don't want to have to sign another complaint for menacing into your jacket. Help us both out here."  
  
Mike's eyes closed, and his knuckles got whiter.  
  
"Detective."  
  
Mike pulled in a breath, then let go and straightened away from the window, faced the captain.  
  
"Tell me this won't happen again." Cragen's voice wasn't exactly unkind, but the tone demanded a very specific response. It was the voice of a superior informing his subordinate in no uncertain terms that if he fucked up like this again, there would be far more than just today's little hell to pay.  
  
Lennie could practically see Mike race through and discard at least a half dozen smartass answers, struggle to keep his infamous tongue under control and for once, win the battle. "No, sir. It won't happen again." It was forced out between gritted teeth, and Lennie figured if it had been anybody other than Donnie Cragen, a man his partner very much liked and admired, Mike just might have flushed his own career by telling him exactly what circle of hell to get off in.  
  
For his own part, watching Mike stew across their desks for the final half hour of their shift just reinforced Lennie's earlier decision -- he'd had enough. This was shaping into a cure-or-kill situation. He liked working with Mike, maybe liked it too much, but he wasn't gonna put up with this crap, nightmares or no. _I've got way too much time in and I've worked too damn hard to get past the taint both from my narc days and the drinking to let anyone fuck it up for me now.  
_  
He was going to find out what Mike's problem was. Tonight. _I'm not dumb enough to think there's a cure, but there's gotta be a way to keep the lid on, before there's damage done that nobody can fix. You're gonna talk to me, Logan, one way or the other.  
_  
"Mike. Pack it up. Let's go get a beer."  
  
That cut through enough of Mike's funk to bring startled gray-green eyes around to meet Lennie's. "You don't drink."  
  
"I'm gonna live vicariously tonight. Let's go."  
  
Lennie drove, taking them to one of his favorite places, which had two better-than-normal pool tables and a real dart board. More importantly, it had an old acquaintance of his tending the bar on this quiet weekday night, a man Lennie knew wouldn't serve him alcohol even if the end of the world was nigh.  
  
Three games of nine-ball, four beers (for Mike), and an hour later he and Mike were at an impasse, with Mike's temper even more visibly frayed. Tie gone, hair askew, anger and alcohol painting red across his high cheekbones; the younger detective was the picture of a troubled man.  
  
_That's the trouble with trying to crack a good cop, they know all the tricks you're using,_ Lennie acknowledged ruefully, eyeing the man slouched on the other side of the booth they now occupied. His own temper was slipping. _Okay, if we can't do this the easy way, we'll have to try the hard, and hope the friendship survives. I don't want to gamble it, but I won't work like this. C'mon, Mike. What, you think I haven't seen abuse before, that I can't handle what you've got? Dammit, **trust** me a little here. Stubborn Mick son of a bitch._  
  
_You or him? _a voice inquired snidely in his head.  
  
_Him, tonight. And **you** can shut up,_ Lennie snapped back at it. "Look," he said sharply, giving rein to his own anger and frustration. And worry. "I like working with you, Mike, but this won't fly. I'm not gonna have **my** cases getting fucked over because I don't know what's gonna send **you** off the deep end."  
  
The comment was designed to sting, and it did. Mike had been staring moodily down into his mostly-empty beer glass, toying restlessly with it. Now he jerked as if he'd been hit. His head snapped up, eyes flashing like he only had one ncrve left and Lennie was stomping on it. "Goddammit, Lennie, I said I was sorry!"  
  
"Sorry's not the point. You're way short on sleep and -- "  
  
"Hey, you don't rank me and you're not my mother, so get off my case already!"  
  
"Damn right I'm not your mother, I'm your **partner**, and in the interests of you not screwing up and draggin' me along, I need to know what's wrong here!"  
  
"For the last time, **nothing** is wrong! There's nothing to tell!"  
  
Lennie blinked, sighed. Saw Mike bristle even more, as if something in that simple motion had shoved him right to the edge. _Stubborn, stubborn, **stubborn **Mick_. "C'mon, Mike, let me help," he tried softly. "Look, you're my friend as well as my partner -- "  
  
"And lookin' at **your** life, you are so goddamned qualified to give advice! Partners is **all** we're gonna be if you don't **Back. The Fuck. OFF!!"** Mike lashed out, finally pushed past his limit.  
  
Not three seconds later, remorse seemed to slap the younger man in the head, judging from his expression. "Len -- "  
  
"Stop." Very soft, but it shut Mike up. Lennie raised a hand and closed his eyes, ducked his head a little, ran his tongue along his teeth as if looking for the one Mike had just metaphorically knocked out. _**Ouch**. Okay, Briscoe, you asked for that.  
  
Now for the death-defying climax of our show. Heads, he finally tells me what's really going on. Tails ....  
  
Tails, I've just shot the best relation -- partnership I've ever had completely to hell._  
  
"All right." Lennie opened his eyes and caught Mike's, held them. "Have it your way. You've got my number." He shoved out of the booth and stood, tossing a bill onto the table between them. "See you tomorrow. Partner."  
  
_Ball's in your court, Irish_.  
  
##  
  
_Damn_.  
  
Mike watched him go, frozen. It wasn't the anger in Lennie's eyes that was the worst, although it was certainly bad enough. It was the resigned **hurt** he'd seen there that was cutting Mike worse than any knife possibly could.  
  
_" ... you're my friend ..."_  
  
And the hell of it was, he really was. In the relatively few short months they'd been partnered, Lennie Briscoe had somehow found his way into a place inside of Mike that damned few people ever had. For everyone whom Mike knew, drank with, was friendly with, he could count the number of souls that he really trusted, that he'd truly call **friends**, on two hands. Maybe even only one.  
  
He couldn't lose this man. He just couldn't.  
  
_Damn, damn, **damn**_.  
  
As his partner reached the door, Mike's paralysis finally broke. "Lennie .... "  
  
It wasn't loud, but in the quietness of the near-empty bar, it was enough. Lennie stopped, his hand on the doorknob. Then he turned, pinning Mike again with that half-hooded but relentless gaze. Mike could only look back, caught on the cusp of something new and terrifying. He didn't talk about it; he **never** talked about it save for a throwaway smart-ass line here and there. Lennie wasn't the first who had guessed, nor was he the first who had asked.  
  
But it looked like he was going to be one of the very, very few whom Mike was going to tell.  
  
The choice was sickeningly clear: either lose one of the best relation -- friendships he'd ever had; or admit to the nightmares, the weakness **he** couldn't accept in himself, never mind expect anybody else to.  
  
And probably lose Lennie's respect, maybe his friendship too, anyway, along with any chance of ever ....  
  
Either way, he was screwed.  
  
Whatever Lennie saw in Mike's eyes seemed to be enough, for he calmly walked back to the bar, collected another club soda with lime and one more Guinness and returned to their booth, setting the glasses down. Then he slid in across from Mike, settled himself against the padded bench back, and waited.  
  
Lifting his new drink, Mike took a long swig of beer, barely registering the familiar bitter taste. Then he set it carefully back down and folded both hands around its cold smoothness, focused half on the near-black liquid, half on his partner's hands across the table, the long tanned fingers dark against the clear tumbler they held. Lennie's skin would be cool from the glass ....  
  
Mike swallowed hard, closed his eyes.  
  
"You know my dad was a beat cop, a uniform, his whole career. And a drunk. Irish as they come. Temper, drank like a fish, but he could 'charm the birds from the trees' when he wanted to. My old lady, though .... " He swallowed again, then set his jaw. "She was the real piece of work. My mother was a heavy-hittin', abusive, de-**voutly** Catholic alcoholic."  
  
He heard Lennie's sharp intake of breath, and wondered blackly which part of his last sentence the older man was reacting to.  
  
"Dad would come home frustrated and angry and he'd drink it off, or sometimes he didn't come home at all, just stayed out and pissed half his paycheck away. And it'd make her furious, more because she didn't think he was paying enough attention to her than about the money. She'd get this look in her eyes and off she'd go, ranting about him and about how we were the children from Hell and about how God had intended her for bigger things than being the wife of a cop from the Lower East Side. And eventually he'd whack her to shut her up."  
  
He gripped the slick glass tighter, struggling for distance from the impotent rage that still, after all these years, had no place to go, and the gnawing guilt that made no sense.  
  
"But even if he didn't, she'd still come after my sister and me for something, anything, didn't matter what. Mostly me, maybe because I was the bigger target, maybe 'cause I'd get between her and Patsy when I could. 'Beatin' the devil out', she called it, with a damn rosary in her hand like she was doing God's Will."  
  
Still struggling, but now it was against the inexorable tide of memory, pulling at him, the foul, polluted waters rising fast.  
  
"Far as I know, in thirty years on the job Dad never once brought his service piece home." He wanted to laugh, but he couldn't seem to get a deep breath. "I think he was afraid she might've used it. And maybe she would've. God knows she almost killed me one night without it."  
  
The words were coming slower now, but they came, feeling as if they belonged to someone speaking from a great distance away. He was remotely aware of the pained sound Lennie had made, opened his eyes to see his partner's fingers clenched hard around the tumbler, but the memories had him now, pulling him back. Pulling him under.  
  
"When you're a kid, you don't know why adults do the things they do. You think it's you, that it's because of you; that if you -- figure out what you're doing and change it, you can make things be different. Make them stop.  
  
"I was seven, and Patsy was five, and Mom had spent all day getting loaded. I'd gotten the idea from somewhere that if we could only be quiet enough, make no noise at all, that'd make her happy and she wouldn't hit us, she'd -- be who she was when she wasn't drinking. But she was lookin' for somebody to take out all her frustration with her whole fucking **life** that night, and we were it."  
  
Come out of there, open this door.  
  
"I dragged Patsy into our bedroom, into the closet, told her not to make a sound...."  
  
/Be quiet, be quiet, shhh, don't cry, no sound .... /  
  
I said open this door. Right now. Do you hear me?  
  
"And we didn't make a peep, and we damn sure weren't going to open that door, but of course it didn't do us any good .... "  
  
/Shhh, don't move, don't cry, don't make any noise maybe she'll think you're not here .... /  
  
"She started beatin' on it, it was just cheap board, again and again ..."  
  
The slap of a fist on wood cracks like thunder like gunshots on TV louder than Dad's BB gun that he shoots in the basement so much louder worse bang bang **bang** --  
  
/Don't cry. Oh God don't cry don't even breathe, no sound no sound at all maybe she'll go away -- /  
  
Open this door! Open the damn door, damn you or as God's my witness you will be sorry you were born you spawn of the devil! Open. This. Door!  
  
/Quiet quiet be small be silent -- /  
  
The door knob rattles and the wood creaks from the blows and creaks and strains and cracks /no oh no, please God I'll never be bad again _please_ -- /  
  
"And the door just -- split."  
  
_She hauls him out by the first thing she can grab, his hair, drags him into the middle of the room, hitting him everywhere she can, his arms, his back, hard, harder, shoves him brutally against the wall and he's dizzy from the impact, she punches at his face and he twists, tries to dodge --  
  
Pain. Unbelievable pain, his shoulder is on **fire** --_  
  
Mike shuddered and clawed his way back to the present, closed his eyes, felt them sting. Just how long he'd been sitting there, staring blindly into the past, he didn't know. How much of the memory, the nightmare, he'd actually said aloud, he wasn't sure. His collarbone ached. He remembered the glass in his hand and lifted it, took a mouthful of beer gone warm, swallowed it with a little difficulty. His throat felt like sun-baked asphalt.  
  
"One punch snapped my collarbone, but she just kept going, didn't know it, or care," he went on, roughly. "She wouldn't have stopped even if I could've told her, which I couldn't. Couldn't get a word out, the pain was that bad. If Dad hadn't come home just then, she might have .... "  
  
He got a deep breath, realized that he was rubbing unconsciously at the old injury, forced himself to stop. "Still got a bump where the bone didn't heal quite straight. Not much they can do for that kind of break 'cept strap your arm to your chest, give you a list of everything you're not supposed to do.  
  
"That was the first time I know of that she actually called AA, talked to them, took the pledge, swore on a stack she'd quit." He snorted at the bitter recollection of naïve excitement and futile hopes, had another swallow of beer to try and soothe his still too dry throat. "Didn't last too long."  
  
"After that Dad must have got his schedule rearranged, 'cause he was around more for a while, long enough to get me mostly healed, anyway. But things just slowly slid right back downhill, and she got that look in her eyes again. And I learned how to duck, when I couldn't run. And I learned how to fight back.  
  
"And now I'm pushing forty, and she's been dead for years. But some nights .... " He shook his head. "Some nights, I can still hear that door breaking. "  
  
Silence for a while, except for the faint chatter of the TV over at the bar.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mike," Lennie said finally, his voice soft and deep, hoarse.  
  
Mike nodded, eyes still closed. "It's okay, Lennie, really. It was all a long time ago." His own voice was pretty steady, he was pleased to note. But inside he was raw and bleeding. Grieving for what shouldn't have been, and what would never, could never be.  
  
Why did he do this to himself? Would he never learn? The few times he had talked about it had all ended the same. No matter how anybody said _tell me, let me help, let me in, I'll understand_, they never really did. Ultimately, the past was his to deal with, alone.  
  
Always the same in the end. Just him, alone with the memories.  
  
And then, he wasn't.  
  
There was touch, and Mike opened his eyes to see Lennie's hand across his wrist. The long fingers were cool and firm against his skin, gold against his own Irish pale complexion. Strong. Comforting and yet discomforting, tingling. Mike wanted badly in that moment to turn his hand, twine his fingers into Lennie's and hold on tight. Wanted to pull, to draw the other man close -- _stop_.  
  
And something was different inside **him**, as if -- as if someone finally understood. Or more than that: accepted. Thought he was worth something despite the weakness he couldn't seem to shake.  
  
He'd spilled his guts, Lennie had all the worst of him now, and yet the man was still here. Touching him, as if Mike's demons didn't scare him.  
  
But then, Lennie had his own demons, didn't he?  
  
Lennie, who'd been caught on the other side of a similar equation. Lennie had kids.  
  
Lennie was a recovering alcoholic.  
  
The sudden, razor-edged surge of what he **would not** own as fear snapped Mike's head up. "Lennie." It came out sharp, angry. "Tell me you didn't ever -- "  
  
"**_No_**." Lennie's sudden breath sounded painful, but he met and held Mike's eyes with no hesitation. Far from backing away, his grip on Mike's wrist tightened. "I swear to you, **_no_**. Even at the worst of it, never a finger on my kids or either of my wives, never anyone I loved. I would have shot myself first."  
  
The grief in Lennie's voice was a live thing, the anguish in the dark eyes too real not to be believed. There wasn't a drop of pity in that gaze, only the gut-level understanding of a man who'd lived his own horror from the inside out and wasn't afraid of Mike's. Who thought no worse of him for being haunted by his past.  
  
Something small in Mike unknotted. This wasn't his mother, wasn't his father -- this was his **partner**. Mike ducked his head and nodded, his throat tight. Lennie squeezed his wrist and then let him go.  
  
It wasn't all right. It could never be all right, but somehow it was better, just a little. Maybe he could relax, just a little. Lennie would watch his back.  
  
"You want a refill? Because I think," Mike managed finally, carefully, laying both hands flat on the table and pushing himself up, "that I am going to ...."  
  
"Another beer?" Lennie asked as Mike picked up their mostly empty glasses.  
  
"Scotch."  
  
## ## ##  
  
From there it was a short fast downhill slide as alcohol, stress, and lack of sleep evidently caught up with his partner all at once. When Mike stumbled over his tongue for the second time, Lennie decided to call it a night. "Enough for tonight, Mike. You're lit, and we do have to work tomorrow."  
  
"'m not drunk."  
  
Lennie raised an eyebrow. "You're not?" he asked gently, amused.  
  
"No. **She** was a drunk. I don' get drunk."  
  
Lennie closed his eyes fleetingly at the simple words, loaded with a lifetime of pain. His own heart ached with the weight of the old hurts Mike had shared with him tonight, and the guilt, reasonable or not, of having dragged them out of the reluctant man. "Whatever you say, partner, but it's still last call. Time to go home."  
  
Mike seemed to rouse at that. "Can't go home," he whispered, almost too low for Lennie to hear.  
  
"Mike?"  
  
"Don' wanna. 'm alone, and if I fall asleep, I'll dream."  
  
Something twisted in Lennie's chest. He'd been there. Oh, how he'd been there. And he shouldn't, shouldn't do it, but there was no way he would leave Mike like this. "Then you won't be alone tonight. C'mon, up we go." He slid out of the booth and stood, then reached over the table and offered his hand.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You can crash at my place, and I'll drive us in tomorrow. You still got a change of clothes at the House?"  
  
Mike looked at his hand, then up at his face, staring as if facing a decision of tremendous import instead of just a friend offering a couch for the night. Then, with the sudden mood swings of the inebriated, he smiled, a sweet-tart thing that had doubtless helped win him more than a few bed- partners. "D' I know you well enough for that?"  
  
"Probably better than half your dates," Lennie shot back, refusing to think about why that hurt a little bit.  
  
The smile broadened, and Mike swiped a lazy finger through the air. "Touché." His palm smacked against Lennie's, and Lennie braced him as Mike pulled himself out of the booth. "Home then, James."  
  
Lennie snorted and rolled his eyes, but it was worth suffering the cheesy remark to see the smile stay on Mike's face just a bit longer.  
  
## ## ##  
  
Lennie's bedroom never got truly dark, courtesy of the city outside -- there was more than enough light for him to see his slumbering guest.  
  
He truly hadn't intended to let Mike sleep in his bed. But he'd let his friend use the bathroom first, and when Lennie was finished, he'd emerged to find a surprisingly neat, folded heap of clothes on the floor by the bed, and Mike huddled under the sheets on the side Lennie normally didn't use, apparently already asleep. There'd been little point in waking him up and moving him -- Lennie knew he himself wasn't going to get much sleep tonight no matter where he was.  
  
Besides, it would give him all kinds of good leverage on his younger partner in the morning.  
  
Tired as he was, he was restless, aching with the pain of Mike's past and his own, all the things neither of them could do anything about. Restless with the desire to comfort, and more than comfort, to touch -- _stop_.  
  
From his perch on the foot of the bed, Lennie watched Mike shift, roll onto his stomach, the sheet pulling down, exposing his broad, muscular back. And roll again, the bedclothes slipping to his waist. The city night lights painted him chiaroscuro, picked out his face, his bare chest in angle and shadow.  
  
Lennie saw it then, in Mike's collarbone, felt it like a fist to his own gut: the bump, the spur in what should have been a straight, clean line.  
  
God Almighty, he wanted. Wanted to comfort that broken spot, long-mended but never healed. Wanted to brush back the lock of dark, tangled hair that had fallen across Mike's forehead. But with the iron control that had taken him up the Twelve Steps, he didn't move.  
  
He just looked at the troubled, exhausted man sleeping in his bed and made a vow then and there, to Mike and to himself. _Never, Mike. Booze fueled the mess your parents made of your childhood -- I'll never subject you to my own alcoholism. I won't let you anywhere near the mess it makes out of me and my life. If, God forbid, I fall off the wagon while we're partners, I'll transfer. I'll leave. You'll get on with your life, and somehow I'll deal with mine. But I won't be responsible for dragging those waters again.  
  
Not for either of us.  
_  
  
finis 


End file.
